Transcribed from the 1891 John Overend edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org

REVISED EDITION OF POEMS

BY Bill o'th' Hoylus End.

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PRICE TWO SHILLINGS.

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PRINTED AND PUBLISHED BY JOHN OVEREND, COOK LANE, KEIGHLEY. 1891.

[Picture: Picture of Bill o' the Hoylus End]

PREFACE

The Author respectfully submits to the general public of his native town and district, this volume of poems, containing some of the chief results of his musings for the past thirty years. He hopes that the volume, which is in reality the production of a life-time, will in many ways be deemed worthy of the kind and courteous approbation of his numerous patrons and friends, as well as the indulgence of literary critics.

In launching forth the work, the Author begs to tender to his patrons and the public generally, his most sincere and hearty thanks for the assistance they have ever rendered him so as to enable him to acquire the necessary leisure for the cultivation of his muse. The result now achieved is not the comprehensive collection of the efforts of the author, but it may he taken as a selection and a representation of his more generally interesting productions from time to time.

Various reasons have operated in the time of the publication and the curtailment of this volume; but it is now submitted with every respect to the public for their perusal. Many of his poems, which are not found in the present volume, the author trusts will be deemed worthy of being treasured in the scrap books of his friends. Of the literary merits of the composition, it would ill become the author in any way to descant upon; but in regard to these he leaves himself entirely and absolutely in the hands of a critical, and, he hopes, an indulgent public, feeling assured that he may trust himself in the hands of his readers.

No formal dedication is here made to any particular patron, but the book is submitted without the powerful influence of any conspicuous name or the commendation of any well-known literary friend; and like Dr. Johnson of old, failing patrons, he trusts that his work will, in the midst of his numerous competitors, locally and generally, be thought worthy of the attention of the various classes of the public.

Come, hand me down that rustic harp, From off that rugged wall, For I must sing another song To suit the Muse's call, For she is bent to sing a poean, On this eventful year, In praise of the philanthropist Whom all his friends hold dear— The Grand Old Man of Oakworth, Beyond his eightieth year!

No flattery! My honest Muse, Nor yet be thou servile; But tinkle up that harp again, A moment to beguile. Altho' the bard be rude and rough, Yet, he is ever proud To do the mite that he can do, And thus proclaim aloud— The Grand Old Man of Oakworth, Of whom we all are proud!

For base indeed were any bard That ever sang on earth, Did he not wish his neighbour well, And praise his sterling worth. Leave state affairs and office To those of younger blood, But I am with the patriot, The noble, wise, and good— The Grand Old Man of Oakworth, The wise, the great, the good!

This worthy old philanthropist, Whom all his neighbours greet; Who has a smile for every one Whom he may chance to meet— Go to yon pleasant village, On the margin of the moor, And you will hear his praises sung By all the aged poor— The Grand Old Man of Oakworth, A friend unto the poor!

Long may he live! and happy be, The patriot and the sire; And may some other harp give praise, Whose notes will sound much higher. His thirst for knowledge, worth, and lore— His heart was ever there— This worthy old philanthropist, Beyond his eightieth year!— The Grand Old Man of Oakworth, Beyond his eightieth year.

THOUGHTS SUGGESTED ON HEARING Dr. Dobie's Lecture on Burns.

Though murky are the days and short, And man he finds but little sport, These gloomy days, to cheer him; Yet, if a Dobie should, perchance, Come out before an audience, 'Tis worth our while to hear him.

Right pleased was I, dear sir, to hear Your lecture on that subject dear, So grand and superhuman; For all the world doth pay regard To Bobbie Burns, the Scottish bard, The patriot and the ploughman.

Your words, indeed, were passing good, On him who kenned and understood The kirk and all its ranting; Who "held the mirror" up, indeed, To show the "muckle unco-guid" Their double-dyed canting.

You painted him sometimes in glee While other times in poverty— To gold without alliance; Yet, after all he kept his pace, And looked grim fortune in the face, And set him at defiance.

But, alas! the picture, was it true? Of Burns' parents, poor and low— So furrowed and so hoary— It makes our very hearts to burn To think that "man was made to mourn," And tell the sad, sad story.

You brought me back to days bygone, When glad its banks I strolled upon, The river Doon so bonnie; The roofless kirk and yard so green, Where many a tombstone may be seen, With Tam and Souter Johnnie.

And when ye spake of yond bright star That lingers in the lift afar, Where Burns was never weary Of gazing on the far-off sphere, Where dwells his angel lassie dear— His ain sweet Highland Mary!

But here my Muse its wings may lower; Such flights are far beyond its power; So I will stop the jingle. Sir, I am much obliged to you, And I am much indebted to The Choir and Mr. Pringle.

[Picture: Picture of bowl of fruit]

What Profits Me.

What profits me tho' I sud be The lord o' yonder castle gay; Hev rooms in state to imitate The princely splendour of the day For what are all my carved doors, My chandeliers or carpet floors, No art could save me from the grave.

What profits me tho' I sud be Decked i' costly costumes grand, Like the Persian king o' kings, Wi' diamond rings to deck my hand: For what wor all my grand attire, That fooils both envy and admire, No gems could save me from the grave.

What profits me tho' I sud be Thy worthy host, O millionaire, Hev cent. for cent. for money lent; My wealth increasing ivvery year. For what wor all my wealth to me, Compared to immortality, Wealth could not save me from the grave.

What profits me tho' I sud be Even the gert Persian Shah, My subjects stand at my command, Wi' fearful aspect and wi' awe; For what wor a despotic rule, Wi' all the world at my control, All could not save me from the grave.

The Death of Gordon.

From the red fields of gore, 'midst war's dreadful clang, I hear a sad strain o'er oceans afar: Oh, shame, shame upon you, ye proud men of England, Whose highest ambition is rapine and war! Through your vain wickedness Thousands are fatherless, False your pretensions old Egypt to save; Arabs with spear in hand Far in a distant land Made our brave Gordon a sad and red grave.

On Nile's sunny banks, with the Arab's great nation, Brave Gordon was honoured and worshipped by all, The acknowledged master of the great situation, Until England's bondholders caused Egypt to fall. Another great blunder, Makes the world wonder, Where is Britannia's sword, sceptre and shield? War and disaster Come thicker and faster, Oh, for the days of the Great Beaconsfield!

Oh, Great Beaconsfield! the wise and the clever, When will thy place in our nation be filled? Britannia's shrill answer is never, oh never, My Beaconsfield's dead, and my Gordon is killed! Oh, blame not my foemen Or a Brutus-like Roman, Or Soudanese Arabs for Gordon's sad doom; But blame that vain Briton Whose name is true written, The slayer of Gordon, who fell at Khartoum.

[Picture: Crest of arms]

The Earl of Beaconsfield.

I sing no song of superstition, No dark deeds of an Inquisition, No mad-brain'd theme of wild ambition, For lo, their doom is sealed! But I will use my best endeavour, To praise the good, the wise, the clever, Who will remember'd be for ever, The Earl of Beaconsfield.

When England was without alliance, He bid the Russians bold defiance, On Austria had no reliance In either flood or field; He proudly sent to Hornby message, The Dardanelles! go force the passage In spite of Turkey, Bear, or Sausage, The dauntless Beaconsfield!

At Berlin, he with admiration Was gazed upon by every nation, And, master of the situation, Vow'd Britons ne'er would yield. For I am here, you may depend on't, This Eastern brawl to make an end on't, To show both plaintiff and defendant I'm Earl of Beaconsfield!

Britannia now doth weep and ponder, Bereaved of him, her child of wonder, No earthly power could break asunder His love for England's weal. And now those locks once dark as raven (For laurel leaves ne'er deck'd a craven) Wear a laurel crown in Heaven, Glorious Beaconsfield!

[Picture: Picture of house in trees]

Come, Nivver Dee i' Thi Shell.

"Come, nivver dee i' thi shell, owd lad," Are words but rudely said; Though they may cheer some stricken heart, Or raise some wretched head; For they are words I love mysel, They're music to my ear; They muster up fresh energy An' chase each doubt an' fear.

Now them wur the days o' grim boggards and witches, When Will-o'-the-wisp cud be seen in the swamp, But nah are the days o' cheating fer riches, An' a poor honest man is classed wi' a scamp. Yes, them wur the days at mi mind worrant weary; O them wur the days aw knew no despair; O give me the time o' the boggard an' fairy, Wi' t' furst Pair o' Briches at ivver aw ware.

O welcome, lovely summer, Wi' thi golden days so long, When the throstle and the blackbird Do charm us wi' ther song; When the lark in early morning Takes his aerial flight; An' the humming bat an' buzzard Frolic in the night.

O! welcome, lovely summer, With her rainbow's lovely form; Her thunner an' her leetnin', An' her grandeur in the storm: With her sunshine an' her shower, An' her whirlin' of the dust, An' the maiden with her flagon, To sleck the mower's thirst.

O! welcome, lovely summer, When the woods wi' music ring, An' the bees so heavy laden, To their hives their treasures bring: When we seek some shady bower, Or some lovely little dell, Or, bivock in the sunshine, Besides some cooling well.

O! welcome, lovely summer, With her roses in full bloom; When the cowslaps an' the laalek Deck the cottage home; When the cherry an' the berry Give a grandeur to the charm; And the clover and the haycock Scent the little farm.

O! welcome, lovely summer, Wi' the partridge on the wing; When the tewit an' the moorgam, Up fra the heather spring, From the crowber an' the billber, An' the bracken an' the whin; As from the noisy tadpole, We hear the crackin' din. O! welcome, lovely summer.

[Having spent the whole of the afternoon in this romantic little glen, indulging in pleasant meditations, I began to wend my way down the craggy pass that leads to the bonny little hamlet of Goose Eye, and turning round to take a last glance at this enchanting vale—with its running whimpering stream—I beheld the "Lass o' Newsholme Dean." She was engaged in driving home a Cochin China hen and her chickens. Instantaneously I was seized with a poetic fit, and gazing upon her as did Robert Tannyhill upon his imaginary beauty, "The Flower of Dumblane," I struck my lyre, and, although the theme of my song turned out afterwards to be a respectable old woman of 70 winters, yet there is still a charm in my "Lass o' Newsholme Dean."]

The lady gay may heed tha not, An' passing by may sneer; The upstart squire's dowters laugh, When thou, my love, art near; But if all ther shinin' soverins War wared o' sattens green, They mightn't be as handsome then As t' Lass o' Newsholme Dean.

High fra the summit o' yon' crag, I view yon' smooky town, Where forten she has deigned to smile On monny a simple clown: Though free fra want, they're free fra brains; An' yet no happier I ween, Than this old farmer's wife an' hens, Aw saw i' Newsholme Dean.

The Broken Pitcher.

[The happiest moments of a soldier in times of peace are when sat round the hearth of his neat little barrack room, along with his comrades, spinning yarns and telling tales; sometimes giving the history of some famous battle or engagement in which he took a prominent part; other times he will relate his own love adventures; then the favourite of the room will oblige them with his song of "Nelson" or "Napoleon" (generally being the favourites with them);—then there is the fancy tale teller, who amuses all. But in all cases the teller of a tale, yarn, or story, makes himself the hero of it, and especially when he speaks of the lass he left behind him; hence this adventure with the "Lassie by the Well."]

There was a bonny Lassie once Sitting by a well— But what this bonny Lassie thought I cannot, cannot tell— When by there went a cavalier Well known as Willie Wright, Just in full marching order, His armour shining bright.

"Ah maiden, lovely maiden, why Sits thou by the spring? Dost thou seek a lover, with A golden wedding ring? Or wherefore dost thou gaze on me, With eyes so bright and wide? Or wherefore does that pitcher lay Broken by thy side?"

"My pitcher it is broken, sir, And this the reason is, A villian came behind me, An' he tried to steal a kiss. I could na take his nonsense, So ne'er a word I spoke, But hit him with my pitcher, And thus you see 'tis broke."

"My uncle Jock McNeil, ye ken Now waits for me to come; He canna mak his Crowdy, Till t'watter it goes home. I canna tak him watter, And that I ken full weel, And so I'm sure to catch it,— For he'll play the varry de'il."

"Ah maiden, lovely maiden, I pray be ruled by me; Smile with thine eyes and ruby lips, And give me kisses three. And we'll suppose my helmet is A pitcher made o' steel, And we'll carry home some watter To thy uncle Jock McNeil."

She silently consented, for She blink'd her bonny ee, I threw mi arms around her, And gave her kisses three. To wrong the bonny Lassie I sware 'twould be a sin; So knelt dahn by the watter To dip mi helmet in.

I often think, my comrades, About this Northern queen, And fancy that I see her smile, Though mountains lay between. But should you meet her Uncle Jock, I hope you'll never tell How I squared the broken pitcher, With the Lassie at the well.

Ode to Sir Titus Salt.

Go, string once more old Ebor's harp, And bring it here to me, For I must sing another song, The theme of which shall be,— A worthy old philanthropist, Whose soul in goodness soars, And one whose name will stand as firm As rocks that gird our shores; The fine old Bradford gentleman, The good Sir Titus Salt.

Heedless of others; some there are, Who all their days employ To raise themselves, no matter how, And better men destroy: How different is the mind of him, Whose deeds themselves are told, Who values worth more nobly far Than all the heaps of gold.

His feast and revels are not such, As those we hear and see, No princely show does he indulge, Nor feats of revelry; But in the orphan schools they are, Or in the cot with her, The widow and the orphan of The shipwrecked mariner,

When stricken down with age and care, His good old neighbours grieved, Or loss of family or mate, Or all on earth bereaved; Go see them in their houses, Where peace their days may end, And learn from them the name of him Who is their aged friend.

With good and great his worth shall live, With high or lowly born; His name is on the scroll of fame, Sweet as the songs of morn; While tyranny and villany Is surely stamped with shame; A nation gives her patriot A never-dying fame.

No empty titles ever could His principles subdue, His queen and country too he loved,— Was loyal and was true: He craved no boon from royalty, Nor wished their pomp to share, Far nobler is the soul of him, The founder of Saltaire.

Thus lives this sage philanthropist, From courtly pomp removed, But not secluded from his friends, For frienship's bond he loved; A noble reputation too Crowns all his latter days; The young men they admire him, And the aged they him praise.

Long life to thee, Sir Titus, The darling of our town; Around thy head while living, We'll weave a laurel crown. Thy monument in marble May suit the passer by, But a monument in all our hearts Will never, never die.

And when thy days are over, And we miss thee on our isle, Around thy tomb for ever May unfading laurels smile: Then may the sweetest flowers Usher in the spring; And roses in the gentle gales, Their balmy odours fling.

With the sun's returning beam, First appearance from the east, Dimpling every limpid stream, Up from rest.

Thro' the airy mountains stray, Chant thy welcome songs above, Full of sport and full of play, Songs of love.

When the evening cloud prevails, And the sun gives way for night, When the shadows mark the vales, Return thy flight.

Like the cottar or the swain, Gentle shepherd, or the herd; Rest thou till the morn again, Bonny bird!

Like thee, on freedom's airy wing, May the poet's rapturous spark, Hail the first approach of spring, Bonny lark!

Some of My Boyish Days.

Home of my boyish days, how can I call Scenes to my memory, that did befall? How can my trembling pen find power to tell The grief I experienced in bidding farewell? Can I forget the days joyously spent, That flew on so rapidly, sweet with content? Can I then quit thee, whose memory's so dear, Home of my boyish days, without one tear?

Can I look back on happy days gone by, Without one pleasant thought, without one sigh Ah, no! though never more these eyes may dwell On thee, old cottage home, I love so well: Home of my childhood! wherever I be, Thou art the nearest and dearest to me!

Can I forget the songs sung by my sire, Like some prophetic bard tuning the lyre? Sweet were the notes that he taught to the young; Psalms for the Sabbath, on Sabbath were sung; And the young minstrels enraptured would come To the little lone cottage I once called my home.

Can I forget the dear landscape around, Where in my boyish days I could be found, Stringing my hazel-bow, roaming the wood, Fancying myself to be bold Robin Hood? Then would my mother say—"Where is he gone? I'm waiting for shuttles that he should have 'wun'?"— She in that cottage there, knitting her healds, And I, her young forester, roaming the fields.

But the shades of the evening gather slowly around, The twilight it thickens and darkens the ground, Night's sombre mantle is spreading the plain. And as I turn round to look on thee again, To take one fond look, one last fond adieu, By night's envious hand thou art snatched from my view; But Oh! there's no darkness—to me—no decay, Home of my boyhood, can chase thee away!

In a pleasant little valley near the ancient town of Ayr, Where the laddies they are honest, and the lassies they are fair; Where Doon in all her splendour ripples sweetly through the wood, And on its banks not long ago a little cottage stood; 'Twas there, in all her splendour, on a January morn, Appeared old Coila's genius—when Robert Burns was born.

Her mantle large of greenish hue and robe of tartan shone, And round its mystic border seen was Luger, Ayr, and Doon; A leaf-clad holly bough was twined so graceful round her brow, She was the darling native muse of Scotia then, as now: So grand old Coila's genius on this January morn, Appeared in all her splendour when Robert Burns was born.

She vowed she ne'er would leave him till he sung old Scotia's plains— The daisy, and the milk-white thorn he tuned in lovely strains; And sung of yellow autumn, or some lovely banks and braes: And make each cottage home resound with his sweet tuneful lays, And sing how Coila's genius, on a January morn, Appeared in all her splendour when Robert Burns was born.

She could not teach him painting like her Cunningham at home, Nor could she teach him sculpturing like Angelo of Rome; But she taught him how to wander her lovely hills among, And sing her bonny burns and glens in simple rustic song; This old Coila's genius did that January morn, Vow in all her splendour when Robert Burns was born.

And in the nights of winter, when stormy winds do roar, And the fierce dashing waves are heard on Ayr's old craggy shore, The young and old encircled around the cheerful fire, Will talk of Rob the Ploughman and tune the Scottish lyre; And sing how Coila's genius on a January morn, Appeared in all her splendour when Robert Burns was born.

John o'f' Bog an' Keighley Feffy Goast: A TALE O' POVERTY

"Some books are lies fra end to end, And some great lies were never penn'd; But this that I am gaun to tell, * * * Lately on a night befel."—BURNS.

I often think o' t'feed, mi lads, When t' gentleman I meet; Bud nauther on us speiks a word Abaht that glorious neet; In fact, I hardly can misel, I feel so fearful shy; Fer I ate a deal o' t'rosted gooise, An' warm'd his giblet pie.

The Grand Old Man.

I sing of a statesman, a statesman of worth, The grandest old statesman there is upon earth; When his axe is well sharpened we all must agree, He can level a nation as well as a tree.

He can trundle such words from his serpent-like tongue As fairly bewilder both old men and young; He can make some believe that's black which is white, And others believe it is morn when it's night.

He has tampered with kings, and connived with the Czar; His Bulgarian twaddle once caused a great war, Where thousands were slain, but what did he heed, He still went to Church the lessons to read.

A bumbailey army to Egypt he sent, In search of some money which long had been spent; He blew up the forts, then commended his men, And ordered them back to old England again.

In the far distant Soudan the Mahdi arose, No doubt he intended to crush all his foes; But Gladstone sent Gordon, who ne'er was afraid, Then left him to perish without any aid.

"If I," said poor Gordon, "get out of this place, That traitor called Gladstone shall ne'er see my face— To the Congo I'll go, if I am not slain, And never put foot in old England again."

When the sad news arrived of the fall of Khartoum, And of how our brave Gordon had met his sad doom, Gladstone went to the theatre and grinned in a box, Tho' he knew that old England was then on the rocks.

He allowed the Dutch Boers on Majuba Hill, Our brave little army to torture and kill; And while our poor fellows did welter in gore, He gave up the sword to the treacherous Boer.

Brave, though black Cetewayo, the great Zulu King, To civilised England they captive did bring; He sent back the Zulu, where first he drew breath, Unguarded and helpless, to meet his own death.

"Had I done," says Bismark, "so much in my life, As Gladstone has done in fomenting sad strife, I could not at this day have looked in the face Of king, prince or peasant of my noble race."

He has tampered and tarnished his national fame; He has injured Great Britain in interest and aim— Caused strife, war and bloodshed too reckless I ween, Not caring for honour of England or Queen.

He invokes the great gods their rich blessing to shower, As he stumps our great nation to get into power; E'en now from old Ireland he cravenly begs, That she will assist him to get on his legs.

Thy stream intoxicates my song, For I am warm; I love thee late, I love thee long; Thou dost me charm; I ever loved thee much before, And now I love thee more and more, For thou art loved the wide world o'er, Charming Bacchus, god of wine!

"Angels hear that angels sing," Sang the bard, While the muse is on the wing, Pay regard; See how Bacchus' nectar flows, Healing up the heartstrings' woes, Making friends, and minus foes, Gracious Bacchus, god of wine!

Ever on thee I depend, As my guest; Thou wilt bring to me the friend I love best; Friendship is the wine of love; Angels dwell with it above, Cooing like the turtle-dove Lovely Bacchus, god of wine!

Laughing Genius, a "Good night!" Yet, stay awhile! Ere thou tak'st thy upward flight, Upon me smile; Drop one feather from thy breast On the bard, that he may rest, Then he will be doubly bless'd, Glorious Bacchus, god of wine!

Kings are great, but thou art just, Night and day; What are kings but royal dust— Birds of prey? Though in splendour they may be— Menials bow, and bend the knee— Oh, let me dwell along with thee, Famous Bacchus, god of wine!

[Picture: Picture of plant]

Sall o't' Bog.

Mi love is like the passion dock, That grows i' t'summer fog; An' tho' shoo's but a country lass, I like mi Sall o' t'Bog.

But aw hev plump fergetten nah What awther on us said; At onny rate we parted friends, An' boath went hooam to bed.

Song of the Months.

High o'er the hill-tops moan the wild breezes, As from the dark branches I hear the sad strain: See the lean pauper by his grim hearth he freezes, While comfort and plenty in palaces reign.

Dark is the visage of the rugged old ocean, To the caves in the billow he rides his foamed steed: As o'er the grim surge with his chariot in motion, He spreads desolation, and laughs at the deed.

No more with the tempest the river is swelling, No angry clouds frown, nor sky darkly lower; The bee sounds her horn, and the gay news is telling That spring is established with sunshine and shower.

In the pride of its beauty the young year is shining, And nature with blossom is wreathing the trees; The white and the green in rich clusters entwining, And sprinkling their sweets on the wings of the breeze.

O May, lovely goddess! what name can be grander? What sunbeam so bright as thine own smiling eye; With thy mantle of green, richly spangled in splendour, At whose sight the last demon of winter doth fly?

From her home in the grass see the primrose is peeping, While diamond dew-drops around her are spread; She smiles thro' her tears like an infant that's sleeping, And to laughter is changed as her sorrows are fled.

The landscape around is now sprinkled with flowers, The mountains are blue in their distant array; The wreaths of green leaves are refreshed with the showers, Like a moth in the sunshine the lark flies away.

How joyous the reapers their harvest songs singing As they see the maid bring the flagon and horn; And the goddess of plenty benedictions is flinging Over meadows and pastures and barley and corn.

'Tis sweet on the hills with the morning sun shining, To watch the rich vale as it brightens below; 'Tis sweet in the valley when day is declining, To mark the fair mountains, deep tinged with its glow.

Now is the time when biting old Boreas, True to his calling, the tempests impend; His hailstones in fury are pelting before us, Our fingers are smarting, and heads they are bent.

The cold winds do murmur, the bleak snow is falling, The beasts of the forest from hunger do call; There are desolate evenings, comfortless mornings, And gloomy noontides for one and for all.

Drear is thine aspect, tyrannical December, O hast thou no mercy for the pitiless poor; Christmas is thine, and well we remember, Though dark is thy visage, we honour thee more.

Bonnie Cliffe Castle.

Oh, bonnie Cliffe Castle! what sight can be grander? Thou picture of beauty and joy to the eye, So noble and grand in thy beauty and splendour That envy must tremble as she passeth by.

And long may'st thou flourish and bloom like the heather, An honour to him who's thy founder so great, And stand like an oak in both fair and foul weather, Till old Father Time hath forgotten thy date.

'Tis a pleasure to view thee from hill-top or level, From moorland, from meadow, or mountain afar, Where Roman pack-horsemen more safely could travel, In days when the Briton and Boman waged war.

In those days of yore, from Hawkcliffe to Rivoc, The wolf and the wild boar sought after their prey, But Briton's brave sons amongst them made havoc, And thus for Cliffe Castle they opened the way.

Where erst were wild woods, crags, moorlands, and marshes, In days long gone by and whose dates are unknown, Is now the highway where stand thy proud arches, Oh, bonnie Cliffe Castle! thou pride of the town.

'Tis true that thy walls were not built for defence, Nor that thy equipments befit thee for war; A castle of love is thy only pretence, A name that is higher and nobler by far.

Thou 'mind'st me of five as kind-hearted brothers, As ever set sail on the deep ocean's breast, Whose lives have been spent in love toward others, And while blessing others themselves have been blest.

Like heroes of old, on horse or on vessel, On land or on water they fought and they won, And now thy grand towers, O bonnie Cliffe Castle! Tower up to the heavens, which answer, "Well done!"

Opening of Devonshire Park, SEPTEMBER 4TH, 1888.

Oh, well do we remember— For the news it was so pleasant— When His Grace the Duke of Devonshire Made our famous town a present Of a pretty little garden— An Arcadia in its way— And how the bells rang merrily On that eventful day.

Oh, this lovely little garden 'Twill be to us a pleasure, It will delight the great elite— To them 'twill be a treasure. And who are they who dare to say The town it did not need one— A pretty little lovely spot And a happy little Eden.

In this pretty little Paradise Of beauty and of splendour— Search our land from end to end, You could not find a grander; The turtledove can make its love, Not caring for the pigeon, If he belongs his politics And follows his religion.

In this pretty little garden, When the bloom is on the heather, Two minds with but one single thought Can tell their tales together; The maiden from the mansion, And the lady from the villa, Can wander there and shed a tear Beneath the weeping willow.

This bonny little garden Is fine for perambulators, Where our handsome servant-lasses Can wheel our lovely creatures, And oh! how happy they will be! As time they are beguiling, When the mammy and the daddy Are upon the babies smiling.

Oh! this pretty little garden, Which every one admires, Which pleased His Grace the Noble Duke To give our little squires. The news was something wonderful, Like the shooting of a rocket, When they heard that they had got a Park, And were "nothing out o'pocket."

In this pretty little garden, With all its blossom blooming We can sit and sing the whole day long, From the morning till the gloaming; And tell Dame Keighley's blunders, When her sons were naught but asses; And could not even raise a Park, To please the upper classes.

Then let us give the Noble Duke, The praises of the Borough— For if we did not thank His Grace, We should commit an error— And not forgetting Mr. Leach, For he deserves rewarding, For it is known he got the town This pretty little garden.

[Picture: Picture of a rose]

Farewell to the REV. H. J. LONGSDON, Formerly Rector of Keighley.

Farewell dear friend, nor take it hard, To leave the town where thou hast been, Where many a joy we hope thou'st had, Though witness'd many a sorry scene.

Thy works were good, we know it well, We watched thee in thy weary toil; Where oft obstruction, shame to tell, Waits on the good their plans to spoil.

Yet thou dids't toil without a fear From day to day, from year to year; Beloved by all, thy foes are few, And they are loth to bid adieu.

We saw thee in the early dawn Up with the lark at break of morn, Thy duties promptly to attend, Our shepherd, pastor, and our friend.

With good advice to one and all, The old, the young, the great, the small; In lane or house, in church or street, Thy presence we were glad to meet.

"Thou art a man! a man! a man!" The Poet quotes from some old play; "An upright, honest gentleman, Whose likes we meet not every day."

And when thou leavest us behind, Our recollections will not die— Of thee whose meekness, zeal, and love, Are known alike to low and high.

Out from thy fold, all other flocks Were proud of thee—a shepherd true, All other shepherds greeted thee, Although thy flocks to theirs were few.

Thou tended with a shepherd's care, And saw that none did go astray; Thou led them with an honest will, From early morn to evening's ray.

Adieu, dear sir, long may'st thou live To be a credit to our isle; And when thou toil'st 'midst other friends, May fortune on thy labours smile.

[Picture: Decorative picture of a plant]

He's Thy Brother.

Turn from the rich thy steps awhile, And visit this poor domicile; Abode of flavours rank and vile? This is the home, and this the style, Where lives thy brother!

The cobwebs are his chandeliers; Bricks and dank straw his bed and chairs; He has no carpet on the stairs, But, like the wild beasts to their lairs, Crawls in thy brother.

He once did stride his father's knee— A little horseman bold and free; And, should thou trace this pedigree, Thy mother's darling pet was he— Thy little brother.

His mind was not of thine, 'tis plain; He dreamt of wonders, thou of gain; But thou thy object didst attain For which another sought in vain— E'en thy own brother.

Thou cunningly didst keep thy pace, While he joined in the wild-goose chase; Thou'rt now the great one of this place, While he hath lost his phantom race— Thy wretched brother!

I see a form amongst the crowd, With stricken heart, and head that's bowed; I hear a voice, both deep and loud— A voice of one that wanted food— It is thy brother.

The meanest wretch that ever trod, The smallest insect 'neath the sod, Are creatures of an All-seeing God, Who may have smitten with his rod Thy foolish brother.

He careth not for wealth or show, But dares thee to neglect, e'en now, That unmanned wretch, so poor and low, Else he may deal a heavy blow, E'en for thy brother.

Lund's Excursion to Windermere.

Come hither mi muse, an' lilt me a spring, Tho'daghtless awhile tha's been on the wing; But yet tha mun try to cum up ta t'mark, An' give us sum rhyme for a bit of a lark: An' tho' at thy notes in this sensation age, Wiseacres may giggle an' critics may rage, Thou art my sole hobby there is no mistake, So sing us t'Excursion ta Windermere Lake.

'Twor a fine summer's mornin' as ivver wor seen, All nature wor wearin' her mantle o' green; The birds wor all singin' i' owd Cockle Wood, As if by their notes they all understood, As weel as the people who com wi' a smile, To see the procession march off i' grand style.

"Owd Rowland," the bell wi' his gert iron tongue, Proclaim'd to the people both owd an' young, 'Twor high time to rise for each moment wor dear As t'train wod be startin' fer Lake Windermere; An' Rowland, the bell, didn't toll, sir, i' vain, For hunderds wur ready ta start for the train.

The procession moves off in a double quick pace, An' all seem delightful—a smile on ther face, As the music strikes up wi' owd "Robin a Dair," Toan hauf o' t'wimmen scarce knaw what they ail; To see the bands marching it wod yah delight, So ably conducted by owd Jimmy Wright.

Tom Nicholl then marched at t'heead of his clan, An' it's said 'at he muster'd his men to a man; There wor Joaney o' Bobs, an' his mates full o' glee, An' that little dark fella 'at comes fra t'Gooise Ee. All a set o' fine fellas in heighest respect, Weel up i' moustaches an' nicely shirt neckt.

I'll assure yu, foak, it seemed varry little afoar we wor at Clapham. Why, yu can judge for yersens; when Tom o' Twist's gat up an' popped his heead aght o' t'window an' shaated aaght "We're at Derby already!" but it turned aght to be nowt but a coil truck wi' "Derby" marked on it. Well, be it as it may, we landed at Lancaster sooin, an' some o' t'owd maids gat aght here, but it wor nivver knawn to this day what for; hahsumivver, it hes been suspected at they wor after some watter, for ther shooin wor steepin' wet when they com back. But yu mun knaw at after a deal o' twistin' an' twinin' they started for Windermere, but, my word, it worrant generally thowt so, for owd Nathan o' Johnny's an' their Samuel, an' owd Matty o' Sykes's, an' Bob o' t'Bog, stood it boldly 'at it wor goin' back to Keighley, an' wodant believe it wal they reitched Kendal; besides, ivverybody thowt at t'train wor lost, but after another start we landed at Windermere, an' nearly all t'passengers wor fair capp'd, for they thowt for sewer at t'injun hed been flaid wi' summat.

But, hod yer din, says Railway Tim, As it is varry clear, At t'injun's reight an' landed streight, For this is Windermere.

But, that worn't all t'mistak at wor made; fer Bill Rollins bethowt him at he'd lost summat, but cudn't tell fer his life what it wor. He groped his pockets, luk'd into his carpet beg, an' studied fer aboon an haar; at last he pick'd it aght 'at it wor their Peg 'at he'd lost somewheer up on t'mahntens.

The skilful pilot's at the wheel, An' his mate is watchin' near; So the captain shouts "Cheer up, mi lads, There's nobody nowt to fear."

Then let the hurrican roar, We sall reitch the opposite shore.

An' summat abaght "the evergreen shore" he sang. But what wi' t'beautiful landscapes on both sides o' t'Lake, an' t'recollections o' Wordsworth, Wilson, Mrs. Hemans, Harriet Martineau, an' other famous poets, painters, an' authors, it threw one of our party into a kind o' poetical mood—

For wal he stood upon the deck, He oft wor heeard to say, "I'd raither oomo to Windermere, Nor go to Morecambe Bay; An' though I've been to Malsis Hall, Where it is fearful grand, It's nowt at all compared wi' this— The nicest place i' t'land.

For, O how splendid is the Lake, Wi' scenery like this! If I cud nobbut stop a week, It wod be nowt amiss; A resolution nah I'll mack, T'next summer what to do;— Asteead o' comin' for a day, I'll stop a week or two."

But nah we land at Bowness Pier, Then sooin we jump ashore, An' back to t'Station we did steer, For rare an' pleased we wor: So into t'train for back agean, Owd friends once more to meet; An' in a crack we're landed back— Bi ten o'clock at neet.

All join i' praise to Mr. Mann, For t'management he made; An' praise the gallant Turkey Band, For t'music 'at they play'd: An' praise is due fra ivvery one 'At shared i' this diversion; All praise an' thanks to Mr. Lund, Who gav this grand Excursion.

The Tartan Plaid.

In Auld Lang Syne I've heard 'em say My granny then she wore A bonnie Scottish Tartan Plaid In them good days o' yore; An' weel I ken when I was young Some happy days we had, When ladies they were dress'd so gay In Scottish Tartan Plaid.

Me thinks I see my father now Sat working at his loom— I see my mother at the wheel— In our dear village home; The swinging-stick I hear again, Its buzzin' makes me sad, To think those happy days are gone When weaving Tartan Plaid.

It is not in a clannish view, For clans are naught to me, But 'tis our ancient Tartan Plaid I dearly love to see. 'Tis something grand ye will agree To see a Highland lad, Donn'd in his Celtic native garb, The grand old Tartan Plaid.

"O wad some power" the hint we give Our Sovereign Lady Queen, To dress herself and lady maids In bonnie tartan sheen. Then treadles, shuttles, warp, and weft— (For trade would not be bad)— Would rattle as in days of yore, When weaving Tartan Plaid.

The Pauper's Box.

Thou odious box, as I look on thee, I wonder wilt thou be unlocked for me? No, no! forbear!—yet then, yet then, 'Neath thy grim lid do lie the men— Men whom fortune's blasted arrows hit, And send them to the pauper's pit.

Throw me into the ocean deep, Where many poor forgotten sleep; Or fling my corpse in the battle mound, With coffinless thousands 'neath the ground; I envy not the mightiest dome, But save me from a pauper's tomb.

I care not if t'were the wild wolf's glen, Or the prison yard, with wicked men: Or into some filthy dung-hole hurled— Anywhere, anywhere! out of the world! In fire or smoke on land or sea, Than thy grim lid be closed on me.

But let me pause, ere I say more About thee, unoffending door; When I bethink me, now I pause, It is not thee who makes the laws, But villians who, if all were just, In thy grim cell would lay their dust.

But yet, t'were grand beneath yond wall, To lie with friends,—relations all; If sculptured tombstones were not there, But simple grass with daisies fair; And were it not, grim box, for thee 'Twere paradise, O cemetery.

The Vale of Aire.

[It was early in the morning that I took my ramble. I had noticed but little until I arrived at the foot of the quaint old hamlet of Marley. My spirits began to be cheered, for lively gratitude glowed in my heart at the wild romantic scenery before me. Passing the old mansion, I wended my way towards the huge crag called the "Altar Rock." Wild and rugged as the scenery was, it furnished an agreeable entertainment to my mind, and with pleasure I pushed my way to the top of the gigantic rock, where I viewed the grandeur of the vale below. The blossom on the branches, the crooked Aire gliding along like sheets of polished crystal, made me poetic. I thought of Nicholson, the poet of this beautiful vale, and reclining on a green moss-covered bank, I framed these words.]

Poet Nicholson, old Ebor's darling bard, Accept from me at least one tributary line; Yet how much more should be thy just reward, Than any wild unpolished song of mine.

No monument in marble can I raise, Or sculptured bust in honour of thy name; But humbly try to celebrate thy praise, And give applause that thou shouldst duly claim.

All hail, the songsters that awake the morn, And soothe the soul with wild melodious strains; All hail, the rocks that Bingley hills adorn, Beneath whose shades wild Nature's grandeur reigns.

From off yon rock that rears its head so high, And overlooks the crooked river Aire; While musing Nature's works full meet the eye, The envied game, the lark and timid hare.

In Goitstock Falls, and rugged Marley's hill, In Bingley's grand and quiet sequestered dale, Each silvery stream, each dike or rippled rill, I see thy haunt and read thy "Poacher's Tale."

So, Homer-like, thy harp was wont to tune Thy native vale in glorious days of old, Whose maidens fair in virtuous beauty shone— Her sages and her heroes great and bold.

No flattering baseness could employ thy mind, The free-born muse detests that servile part: In simple lore thy self-taught lay I find More grandeur far than all the gloss of art.

Though small regard be paid to worth so rare, And humble worth unheeded pass along; Ages to come will sing the "Yale of Aire," Her Nicholson and his historic song.

I left yon fields so fair to view; I left yon mountain pass and peaks; I left two een so bonny blue, A dimpled chin and rosy cheeks. For an helmet gay and suit o' red I did exchange my corduroy; I mind the words the Sergeant said, When I in sooth was but a boy.

"Come, rouse my lad, be not afraid; Come, join and be a brave dragoon: You'll be well clothed, well kept, well paid, To captain be promoted soon. Your sweetheart, too, will smile to see Your manly form and dress so fine; Give me your hand and follow me,— Our troop's the finest in the line.

"The pyramids beheld our corps Drive back the mighty man of Fate! Our ire is felt on every shore, In every country, clime, or state. The Cuirassiers at Waterloo We crushed;—they were the pride of France! At Inkerman, with sabre true, We broke the Russ and Cossack lance!

"Then come, my lad, extend your hand, Tame indolence I hold it mean; Now follow me, at the command, Of our Most Gracious Sovereign Queen! A prancing steed you'll have to ride; A bonny plume will deck your brow; With clinking spurs and sword beside,— Come! here's the shilling: take it now!"

The loyal pledge I took and gave,— It was not for the silver coin; I wished to cross the briny wave, And England's gallant sons to join. Since—many a summer's sun has set, An' time's graved-care is on my brow, Yet I am free and willing yet To meet old England's daring foe.

Address to the Queen, JUNE 20th, 1887.

To the Queen's Most Excellent Majesty.

Most Gracious Sovereign Lady, Victoria Alexandra Guelph, Queen of the hearts of her people throughout all civilisation, one of your Majesty's loyal and faithful subjects desires most respectfully to approach your Majesty to congratulate you upon the completion of the fiftieth year of your reign. In the same year of your Majesty's coronation, in a wild part of old Yorkshire, where it is said the wind never blew nor the cock ever crew, was your Most Gracious Majesty's humble servant born; and at the very hour that your Majest ascended the Throne, a kind, good Yorkshire mother was rocking her baby in an old oak cradle, while the father was treading the treadles and picking the shuttle of his old hand-loom to the tune of "Britons never shall be slaves"; and I am proud to convey to your Majesty that the child in the old oak cradle was no less a person than your Majesty's humble and obedient servant, Bill o'th' Hoylus End, Poet and Philosopher to the plebians of Keighley, and who now rejoices in the fiftieth year of your Majesty's reign that he has been blessed with good health during that long period, having had at no time occasion to call in a physician. John Barleycorn has been my medical adviser, and when I begin to review the fifty years of your most illustrious reign, from my birth, I feel grateful indeed, for great and mighty men and nations have risen and fallen; but I am proud to think that your Most Gracious Majesty and your humble servant have weathered the storm, and I also can assure your Majesty that the lukewarm loyalty of the upper ten is not a sample of people here, for during the latter half of your Majesty's reign up to now prosperity has shone upon the once crooked, old, mis-shapen town, for wealth has been accumulated to the tune of millions, which I am sorry to inform your Majesty is in the hands of those who mean to keep it. One portion of your Majesty's lukewarm loyal subjects have the advancement of art and science so much on the brain that it is feared they will go stark mad. I have also much pleasure in informing your gracious Majesty that His Grace the Duke of Devonshire has presented the people of Keighley with a plot of ground to be called the Devonshire Park, which will be opened on the occasion of your Majesty's Jubilee; also that Henry Isaac Butterfield, Esquire, of bonny Cliffe Castle, has erected a noble-looking structure, to be called the Jubilee Tower, which will be opened on the day of your Majesty's Grand Jubilee, to commemorate your Majesty's glorious reign. This gentleman is a native of Keighley, and fairly entitled to be knighted by your gracious Majesty, seeing that he has done more to beautify the town than all the rest. It has also been given out that the town has to be honoured by a royal visit from your Majesty's grandson, Prince George. But pray take a fool's advice, your Majesty, and don't let him come unless he is able to pay his own expenses; for I can assure His Royal Highness that this is the city of number oneism. Yet with the exception of parting with the bawbees, I dare be sworn that your Majesty's subjects in Keighley are the grand and genuine men of the shire, take them in art and science, flood or field.

I sincerely hope that your Most Gracious Majesty will excuse the blunt and out-spoken Bard, who will ever remain your Majesty's most humble and obedient servant,—BILL O'TH' HOYLUS END.

P.S.—I beg your Majesty's most humble pardon, for since I addressed your most gracious Majesty a note has come to me stating that the Brewers, Bakers, Shoemakers, and Tailors, have subscribed and bought a splendid Ox, which will be roasted and served to the poor on the occasion of the celebration of your most gracious Majesty's Jubilee.

Then Hail to England's Gracious Queen! 'Tis now proclaimed afar, The Jubilee of our Gracious Queen, The Empire's Guiding Star. For fifty years she's been to us A Monarch and a Mother; And looks her subjects in the face As Sister or a Brother.

Then here's a health to England's Queen Whom Jove to us hath given; A better Monarch ne'er has been Beneath His starry heaven. There is no man of any clan, O'er any land or sea, But what will sing "God bless our Queen" On her grand Jubilee.

The world looks on Old England's Queen In danger for protection; Nor never yet hath England failed To make her grand correction. "Fair play," she cries, no one shall harm A child beneath my realm; I'm Captain of Great Britain's barque And standing at the helm.

Had England trusted wicked men, This day where had she been? But lo! she had a Guiding Star, 'Twas our dear Mother Queen. There is no foe, where'er you go This day, I vow, could hate her; She's a blessing to her nation, And a terror to a traitor.

As she has been, long may she reign, The Grand Old Queen of Britain; In letters of bright gold her name Henceforward should be written. All nations 'neath the stars above, And canopy of heaven, Rejoice to see her Jubilee In Eighteen Eighty-seven.

Ode to Burns on his 130th Birthday.

Weak bard, but thou dost try in vain To tune that mighty harp again, To try thy muse in Burns's strain— Thou'rt far behind. And yet to praise him thou would'st fain— It is thy mind.

He who sang of Bruce's command At Bannockburn, with sword in hand, And bid his warriors firmly stand Upon the spot; And bid the foemen leave the land, Or face the Scot.

He who freed the human mind Of superstitious weak and blind; He who peered the scenes behind Their holy fairs— How orthodox its pockets lined With canting prayers.

Yes; he whose life's short span appears Mixed up with joyous smiles and tears; So interwove with doubts and fears His harp did ring; And made the world to ope' its ears And hear him sing.

'Twas his to walk the lonely glen, Betimes to shun the haunts of men, Searching for his magic pen— Poetic fire; And far beyond the human ken He strung the lyre.

And well old Scotland may be proud To hear her Burns proclaimed aloud, For to her sons the world hath bowed Through Burns's name— All races of the world are proud Of Burns's fame.

Trip to Malsis Hall.

The day wor fine, the sun did shine, No signs o' rain to fall, When t'North Beck hands, i' jovial bands, Did visit Malsis Hall.

Up by the hill o' North Beck Mill, Both owd an' young did meet; To march I trow, i' two-by-two, Procession dahn the street.

An' Marriner's Band, wi' music grand, Struck up wi' all ther might; Then one an' all, both great an' small, March'd on wi' great delight.

The girls an' boys, wi' jovial noise, The fife an' drum did play; For ivvery one wod hev some fun On this eventful day.

Owd Joan o' Sall's wi' all his pals, March'd on wi' all ther ease: Just for a lark, some did remark, "There goes some prime owd cheese!"